


you're (un)holy to me

by smallredboy



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Blood and Gore, Cancer, Crying, Dismemberment, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreamsharing, First Kiss, First Time, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Love, Memories, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Past Child Abuse, Questionable Coping Mechanisms, Secrets, Torture, True Love, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2019-12-26 13:17:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18283070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: After their deaths, House ends up becoming a demon and Wilson becomes an angel.They don't expect to see each other again; at least until Wilson is commanded by an Archangel to check on Hell's torture chambers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i have the second chapter already written out, i've got a good outline, and i plan to get to a little over 10k with this fic. let's hope i do complete it!
> 
> there will be no mentions of god in this fic, although i am well-aware the ideas of hell and heaven and what angels look like are heavily inspired by my experiences with christianity. but i'm not mentioning god just to flex. i might mention some religious homophobia at some point though. not sure yet.
> 
> enjoy!

House is aware that dismembering his father over and over again isn’t the best coping mechanism, but he makes do.

He wakes up, and he still doesn’t know how long has it been. Time isn’t very linear after life, and he knows this well— he still wishes for a name to be given to how long it’s been since his death. Has it been centuries, has it been mere minutes? He can’t tell. He misses not being a demon— he looks at the cracked mirror in his apartment and sees his pitch black sclera, and a shudder goes through his spine. His horns have started sprouting, tiny and red and barely visible, too.

He goes to the torture chambers— any and all humans destined to Hell who weren’t given the choice to be demonized are free to be tortured to Hell (hah) and back. He pulls one of the worst demons away from his victim of the day when he starts fiddling with his fly, reminding him of the rules. Even the Devil’s got his limits.

He goes to the chamber he’s rented for himself and his victim, pacing around the room as he sees that monster, still like he’s in a freeze frame in a movie. It’s for easier access; he pushes closer to himself and digs his claws into his arm, blood already trickling down into them.

John House screams, face contorted in agony, and House drinks the sound up, twisting his hand. From his elbow, the arm comes off clean, blood dripping into the cold stone floors. It still smells of disinfectant, like a hospital, but the blood seeps into the aroma. He inhales through his nose and groans in delight. John House is still screaming, trying to twist and twitch, but he can’t, stopped in motion as pain sears through his body.

He laughs a little, as much as a bit of human guilt seeps into him. He’s made his life miserable, but giving him payback feels evil, somehow. It’s a stupid thing to think; he’s a demon, he’s already evil.

He crouches down and puts his claws on the muscle he missed while he was alive.

John pants in between screams, “G-Greg—”   
  
“Shut up,” he snarls, ripping the muscle and skin right off John. He howls in pain, more blood trickling down his leg. The smell of blood fills the room, leaves it without the telltale scent of disinfectant. It’s more like a hospital with all the blood, though— this is more like what’s he used to.

He watches in a trance as blood drips out of John House’s dismembered right arm and the missing muscle in his left leg. He’s still panting and screaming, begging for it to be over.

House rolls his eyes. “You’re not getting off that easy, you shitstain. You know why you’re in Hell. You know why you’re being tortured.” He draws in a breath. “You’re an evil piece of shit.”   


Before he can continue tormenting his tormentor, there’s a strange feeling spreading through his body. It’s cold, an unlikely feeling in the heat of Hell. He stops in his tracks, turns. He’s tempted to open the door, but he doesn’t want to. Pure white light is filtering through the bars along the room. Stone cracks underneath his feet at the unknown entity.

The door slams open, and House’s eyes widen. 

The being is blindingly  _ bright _ . All white light, a bit of blue in there, wingspan a lot larger than his own, an uncanny closed eye on his chest— it takes him a few seconds to look at his face, and then oh, he recognizes him. His heart stops and he stares, unable to say a word. He snaps his fingers, and John House stops screaming.

Wilson is bright, white and blue light and soft feathers— Wilson is an angel, and he’s there in Hell, staring at him with the same disbelief House feels.

“Wilson,” he breathes, trying to keep his calm demeanor. “What are you doing here?”   


Wilson shrugs, his eyes still wide. “I was commanded to check on Hell,” he says. “You’re… here…”   
  
“Yeah,” he says. “Torturing…” He waves his hands around. “...My dad… and stuff.”   


The ghost of a smile appears on Wilson’s lips, and suddenly he’s back on his motorcycle, looking at him like he’s the world. “What else could I expect from you?”   
  
He swallows and looks around; his hearts are beating hard, quickening their pulse, and he just wants to say a thousand things he’s never said out loud.  _ I love you, I always loved you. I’m sorry about everything _ . But they just stare at each other, the chill of being around an angel seeping underneath his skin, into his bones.

Wilson keeps silent for a few minutes, still looking at House, glancing up and down. “I’ll… get to finish my rounds,” he says.

House doesn’t reply, so he adds, “I’ll come back as soon as I’m done.”   


He nods. Wilson turns and leaves— the heat of Hell soon returns to his body, and soon he’s left empty without heavenly, angelic presence all close to him. The smell of blood and disinfectant comes back to him. Everything’s still the same, he’s still a demon (and Wilson is an angel.)

He keeps staring at the door, and John House doesn’t say anything. Maybe he’s learned a thing or two and knows he shouldn’t speak by now.

He turns and without a moment’s worth of hesitance, he starts dismembering his father again. He’s trying to deal with the anxiety seeping up in every corner of his body, the nerves, the fear— what if he doesn’t know how to speak to Wilson anymore? What if they can’t do anything together anymore? They’re in different castes, different beings— when Wilson leaves to Heaven, they’ll be in  _ different planes of existence _ altogether.

He pops off his arms, pulls off each and every bone in them, pulls them off to show him all while he’s awake. He’s still not quite sure how the Devil does it, but it’s an interesting trick to make them be awake in situations humans can’t possibly be awake for — like the excruciating pain of being dismembered and bleeding out. 

He breathes hard and tries to calm his nerves, blocking out the sound of his father screaming at the top of his lungs. Blood must be staining his boots by now, with how much John’s bleeding. He clicks his tongue and snaps his fingers, makes everything go away. All that stays is John House in one piece and the scent of disinfectant.

He leaves the room and closes the door behind himself, waiting for Wilson, claws still crimson.

After what feels like an eternity, cold seeps into his bones again. He stands up, and a smile makes its way into his face when Wilson goes back into the chambers. There’s screams muffled by the stone and the bars, blood that can be seen but not smelled. 

“House,” he says again. “Can I hug you?”   
  
“You’re cold,” he points out.

Wilson smiles a little. “And you’re warm.”   
  
“Let’s not hug, then. It might end the multiverse as we know it.”   
  
Wilson laughs, and House’s humanity is restored back up, his sclera goes back to its typical color (or at least that’s what it feels like. It feels like he’s alive and breathing again, it feels like he’s going on a six month long trip again. He wants to want for time to be infinite once again.)

“How long has it been?” House asks.

He shrugs. “About ten years down on Earth.”

He swallows. “Oh,” he says, “Chase is all grown up now.”   
  
Wilson chuckles. “He died in a freak accident about four years after…” His face sours a little, “Everything.”   
  
House knows, of course, what he means.

“Is he…” He points upward. Wilson nods. “Is it because he killed a genocidal tyrant?”   
  
Wilson laughs again, and House is cold to the bone but he doesn’t mind. He’d never mind to be with Wilson, no matter how cold it’d get around him. No matter how big his feathery wings are, so big they could wrap him up and he could hold him with them— he pushes the thought away, almost gently. He doesn’t want to think too much; he knows there’s no chance to reunite with Wilson apart from this.

Or is there? There should be. It’s ridiculous that Hell and Heaven are pulled so, so apart— the fact they’re away and unable to contact each other unlike situations like this.

“Since when do angels come down here to check on us?”   


Wilson shrugs. “One of the Archangels told me to, I wasn’t going to disobey.”   
  
“What, do you fall immediately when you disobey?”   
  
He rolls his eyes, smacks his arm lightly. It’s too cold in the hallway, but it’s homely. “Not as far as I know, no.” He looks at the watch wrapped around his wrist, unreadable numbers along its round edges. House thinks it might be in the Angelic common tongue he’s heard so much about. When Wilson mumbles something in a guttural kind of sound, he’s confirmed this theory.

“I have to go in about uh, an hour.” He pulls his sleeve over the “I can see everything is as hellish as it should be, so we can spend that time together.”

House shows Wilson the way back to his apartment— Wilson keeps looking around, still in disbelief over the appearance of Hell. The only thing in common with the sayings are the torture and the heat. There’s no fire, and the paths are made of stone and obsidian, statues of people none of them can name around the paths. 

House’s apartment is much of the same— obsidian and other dark materials, except for some lighter parts for easier viewing. He guides Wilson in and smiles, settling on the living room and turning the TV on. 

“Today on, angels’ stupidity—”

House changes the channel.

“You all really do despise us,” Wilson says, resting his chin on his hand.

“You angels don’t despise us back?”   
  
He goes silent for a few long seconds. “I don’t think angels are capable of hatred.”

“Yeah, sure. And your skin is actually made of cotton candy.”   


Wilson laughs dryly and leans against him. “How’s… how’s it been?” he asks awkwardly.

“Hellish.” Wilson groans. “Oh, c’mon, you know that was an easy one.”   


Wilson shakes his head. “Seriously, though.”   
  
“Oh, it’s fine. Torturing my father is great.”   
  
He nods curtly. “You’re exactly what all survivors try to not be.”   
  
“I’m well aware.”   


The conversation continues, with minutes of silence as they watch TV. There are still monster truck shows there.

“So…” He swallows at what's he going to ask. The guilt had followed him throughout all the years after. “You’ve been with Amber?” House asks.

He shifts away from him a little. “Yeah, but we’re just friends now.”   
  
“You broke up?” he says. “In Heaven?”   
  
“I think death broke us up first,” he says dryly. 

House snorts. “That’s a fair point. What’s Heaven like? Is it as cold as you?”   
  
“No, you’re just hot.”   


House gives him a look, and Wilson just stares back at him, a faint blush settling on his cheeks. After a few seconds they look away and turn to the TV. All House can think of is how much he wants to kiss WIlson— how much he’s always wanted to kiss Wilson. He’s even more perfect and unreachable right now, wings folded against the back of the sofa, eyes clear and a soft smile on his lips; the cold seeping into his bones by being so close to him.

“Has anyone else died?” House asks, changing the topic. He knows what he should do, what either of them should do. But they never do.

Wilson sucks in a breath, the blush still faint against his cheeks. And oh, he is just  _ gorgeous _ . “Thirteen,” he supplies.

“Ah,” House says. He hums. “Of course. Did anyone put her out of her misery, or…?”   
  
Wilson sucks in a breath. “Chase did.”   
  
He nods, a heavy feeling on his chest. He once promised to take Thirteen out when she needed it, when her life became miserable— and now that Chase had stepped in as Head of Diagnostics, he guesses he’d taken his word for that, too, although he didn’t know about it. Maybe Thirteen informed him.

He reminiscences about the past and how he can’t do anything about it. He tries not to think about all the missed opportunities, all the times he could’ve done something about the unspoken  _ thing  _ in between him and Wilson.

There’s an impenetrable distance in between himself and Wilson— he wants to pull Wilson closer, have his wings around him, enveloping him. He wants to be cold, icy if it means to just be with him. At his side.

He knows it’s a bit ridiculous. A bit too much.

Wilson’s watch starts making guttural noises, Angelic tongue. Wilson turns it off and gives him an apologetic look.

“I have to go.” He stands up, taking a bit of obsidian from House’s coffee table and putting it in the pocket of his pants.

“I’ll see you again,” House immediately says, standing up as well. “Somehow. Some way.”   


Wilson smiles at him a little. It’s a sad smile, one of those he’s seen in Wilson only a few times. It brings him back to his motorcycle yet again— all comes back to that afternoon, somehow. The day he decided to throw it all away for him.

“I don’t think that’s possible, House,” he says. 

He’s still not stepping away, not leaving.

House smiles at him. “Don’t count on anything being impossible, Jimmy. I’m Dr. Gregory House, remember?”   


His smile becomes honest, happier, and he turns to leave. House follows behind him, and watches as he unfolds his wings wide, feathers falling onto the obsidian. He pulls himself upward and soon he’s flying, more feathers falling into the grounds of Hell.

House watches as Wilson goes to the gates up in the ceilings of Hell, pulls through without any difficulty. He watches until Wilson is out of his line of sight, and then bends down to pick some of the feathers. They’re cold; they’re Wilson’s.

He puts one of them in his pocket and swears to himself that he’ll find out how to get to him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello gays! i have barely started with chapter 3 but heres chapter 2. its almost two thousand words. 
> 
> enjoy!

Wilson makes his way back up to Heaven— it takes a bit, with his wings still heavy on him. He doesn’t use them much, as they don’t do much in Heaven and he hadn’t been much of a errand angel before this specific task. His heart still beats hard at the fact he’s seen House, that he talked to House. He’d missed him so much— sure, Amber is there with him, but it wasn’t anything like being with House. She knows that, too.

He keeps a hand on the pocket of his sweater, tailored to fit his wings in. He can feel the hot obsidian on it— the token from House’s apartment in hell. He wonders, will he ever come back there? He’d like to. It’s too hot and it’s asphyxiating, but House is there— House is there, as ridiculous and stubborn as he is. House is there.

“Wilson!” Amber exclaims when he slips back into their apartment.

“Amber,” he nods, going to her and giving her a tight hug.

She sits down on the edge of the couch, putting her hand on her chin. “How was it?” she asks with a smile.

“I saw House.”   
  
She stops in her tracks, surprise filling her face. “Holy shit, you did? How—”

“I didn’t want to leave,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck. “It was… so nice. I’ve missed him.”   
  
“Of course you have,” Amber says, hugging him again. “What’s Hell like?”   
  
“Mostly black and gray shades. No lava, no fire. But there is a lot of torture.”   
  
She hums. “And House, is he…?”   
  
“He was demonized,” he says.

“Oh, so he was the one doing the torturing.” Wilson squirms a little, and her eyes light up with interest. “Who?”   
  
“His dad.”   


“You never told me he had daddy issues.”   
  
Wilson rolls his eyes and sits at her side. “I think they’re pretty blatant.”   
  
She laughs a little. “That’s true. So… did you go to his apartment, did you…?”   
  
“Amber, you know I can’t.”   
  
She smacks his arm lightly. “Yes you can.” She unfolds her wings— their span isn’t as big as Wilson’s but they’re still gorgeous, and he can see the blue markings along them. “You need to do it already.”   
  
“Well,” Wilson says, giving her a shrug, “You know I just missed my last opportunity to do anything with him.”   


Amber puts a hand on his knee. “Don’t think like that! There must be a way for angels and demons to meet without it being for a job—”   
  
“Why would there be?” Wilson interrupts, his voice raising in pitch. “In the TV there was something about angels being stupid before he changed the channel. They hate us, I don’t think just because an angel wants to see his best friend who became a demon is gonna change their mind.”   
  
“I don’t think it’s the first time something like this has happened,” she points out. “And also, you can just ask one of the Archangels. I’m sure they would want to arrange something.”   


Wilson sighs and messes up his own hair in stress. He wants to see House again, of course he does, but he doesn’t want to interfere with how things have been since the beginning of time. That’s too much for a once-human angel to do.

“We should… ask Thirteen first,” he says. “She’s… you know, higher in the hierarchy but not an Archangel either.”   
  
“I still don’t understand why she’s higher up than  _ you _ .”   


He sighs. “She’s got the whole, uh, didn’t help with euthanasia going on for her.”   


She chuckles a little. “You’re right.” She swallows. “She’s bi, right?”   
  
“Very. Have you even see her?”   
  
“I was making sure!” Amber whines, throwing her hands up in the air. “And besides, I’m interested. She’s like, the only person from your life apart from Chase who’s died too and is in Heaven.”   
  
“Just say you want to hook up with her,” he replies.

“Well, it’s not like I’m gonna hook up with  _ Chase _ . He’s a man, first of all, and he had the  _ ugliest  _ haircut when he died.”

Wilson rolls his eyes. “Let’s go talk to Thirteen. You can flirt with her while doing that.”   
  
Her eyes light up. “You’re the only man that matters,” she says with a teasing smile.

He laughs. “I know, Amber. Let’s go.”   


* * *

They find Thirteen in one of the clearings by the ambiental parts of Heaven. There’s a small river and flowers and trees, everything in a soft blue hue still. It’s either blue or white there, teh same way everything is either black or gray in Hell.

Amber steps up and sits down next to her, smiling a little.

“Hey Thirteen,” she starts.

She looks better than she did when she died with Chase’s help.  Her eyes aren’t sunken and lifeless— she looks a lot more like when she was under House’s employment, before her Huntington’s hit her hard and with no mercy for her youth and her beauty.

She looks at her. “Amber,” she says softly. “It’s been a while, what’s up?”   


“Well,” she keeps her gaze, a soft smile on her factions, her eyes curious and bright. Wilson can’t blame her, really— Thirteen is stunning. “I was wondering some things about Heaven and the multiverse you might know about, with your higher status and everything.”

Thirteen bites her lip, tilts her head and flutters her eyelashes a little. Amber blushes. “What’s your question? I can probably answer it. Mind the probably, they don’t inform me of everything.”   
  
“Sad,” Amber says, pulling herself closer to her. “I was wondering if there was like, a middle ground in between Hell and Heaven? Like the typical purgatory?”   
  
Thirteen’s face scrunches up a little and she hums. Wilson bites his lip as he watches it with interest. He needs to know the answers while he plays matchmaker.

“Not really, no,” she says. “There’s nothing of the sort. Why would you ask?”   
  
Amber shrugs and puts her hand on top of Thirteen’s, who immediately intertwines their fingers. “Was just curious. So there’d be no way for an angel and a demon to meet at a demon, right? Theoretically, of course.”

Thirteen clicks her tongue and her eyes meet Wilson’s for a full second, and fear fills his heart. He’s made jokes about House being in Hell— does she have any clue it’s about them? She perhaps does. It wouldn’t be far fetched in the least.

“Well,” she tilts her head a little. “The Archangels have been whispering.”   
  
“About—?”   


Thirteen kisses her cheek and stands up.

“I’m not allowed to say much,” she says.   
  
Amber stares at her wide-eyed, bringing her hand to her cheek. “You’ve never been one to abide by the rules—”   
  
“Well, the possibility of falling wasn’t a possibility back then, Amber,” she points out. She unfolds her wings— they’re less blue than Wilson’s. “Tell Wilson he’ll have to find his way to see his beloved.”   
  
Amber looks back at Wilson, and then again at where Thirteen was— she’s already flying away from them.

Wilson goes to sit next to her and sighs. His head is swimming— what does this mean? What if that one-off encounter, that wildly low chance of seeing him torturing his father, is all he gets for the rest of his time in the afterlife? What if he never gets to see House again? House, the love of his life? 

He asks, “We shouldn’t follow her, right?”

“I don’t think she’ll say anything else.” She hums. “Do you think I should ask her out to go to that restaurant in the square?”   
  
Wilson puts a hand on her shoulder. “I’m trying to cope with the fact I might not ever be able to see House again. But yes, you should.”   


Amber hugs him. “I’m sure the thing about the Archangels meant something.”

“Yeah,” he nods. He’s not up for cryptic messages right now, though. “I’ll go sleep, I think.”

“You should.” She tightens her hold on him before pulling away, unfolding her wings, caressing Wilson’s own. “Rest well.”   
  
He smiles a little and nods. “See you tomorrow.”

“I might sneak into your arms. They’re very comfortable.”   


He rolls his eyes and flies back to their place in Heaven, curling into bed, folding his wings around himself. He knows Amber knows how to pull them off if she does come back to sleep in.

* * *

He can barely see a thing. Eyes lidded, soft breaths leaving his mouth. Someone rubs circles into his back, and then goes to sit on the chair next to his bed. It’s been like this for ages now— he doesn’t know where he is. Everything hurts, his chest and his legs and his hands and his head. The dull ache and the feeling of everything being too, too slow.

“House,” he chokes out.

“Shh,” he says, “I know. You’re okay. Everything’s okay.” His voice is soft and kind and so not-House. He tries to open his eyes, tries to look up at him, but he doesn’t manage to see a single thing. It does sound like him, though, the vibration of his voice.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes.

“Everything’s fine,” he says. “You’re fine. It’s all going to be over soon, I promise.”   


The scene changes, but only because the light filtering through the windows and into his lidded eyes is weaker. Everything is fuzzy, farther away.

“You know,” House starts— he can’t see him but he knows where he is. Seated on the chair, legs spread a little, slouching down, elbows by his knees, hands together. “I’ve bought a fuck ton of pills lately. It’ll all be over soon for both of us.” He swallows. “I never quite believed in anything, you know that well, but it’s…”   
  
He trails off. He swallows again, clears his throat. There’s tears in his voice.

“I don’t know where I’m going with this. I just think I want this to last longer than it will.”

He stands and puts a hand on Wilson’s leg. He twitches and curses.

“I’ll miss you for the few hours I’ll still be here.”   


The scene changes. No light filtering through the windows— night. Every day is the same by now.

He can’t open his eyes, but he can hear. He’s lost one sense, how much until he loses all of them? Until his cancer catches up to him? It’s already been nearing seven months. It’s been too long, longer than the doctors hoped for him. The other oncologists have hoped for him.

House gets all choked up. “This is taking far longer than I expected,” he says through hearable tears. “I…”

He leans in; he kisses Wilson’s forehead. He notices just how sweaty he is, the uneasy feeling all over him. House keeps a hand on his thinning hair. The touch feels sacred.

“Love you too,” he mumbles before everything goes black.

Wilson wakes up to Amber in his arms, and he draws in a shaky breath. He hasn’t had memory dreams for forever, and they’re too real, and he aches for House’s touch. He aches to have what he never had during his time alive. Everything hurts inside him, but this time it isn’t cancer— it’s the lovesickness that follows him.

His last words were that— were an admission of feelings. They were everything he wanted to say while he wasn’t in his deathbed, and he couldn’t keep it locked up.

He closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to deal with this. He wants to pretend he likes being in Heaven without the man he knew for twenty-three years. The man he was in love with for a good portion of those two decades.

He tightens his hold around Amber, he closes his eyes and rests his chin on her head.

He doesn’t need to sleep with being an angel and all, but he still tries to fall asleep; tries to get some semblance of rest. It doesn’t work.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the very late update, started procrastinating and stuff. its here now though!
> 
> enjoy :3

House has always found Hell lonely. The only company he’s gotten thus far is his father’s screams, the demons ordering him around, and one or two famous people who are always lounging around with their black sclera, some of them with horns and some not. But now that Wilson has been once in his settlement in Hell, it is so much lonelier. It’s almost pathetic, how he longs for his best friend, his something more, his  _ will-they-or-won’t-they.  _ He has too much yearning to do anything with, and he knows there’s no chance in Hell ( _ hah _ ) to ever get to see Wilson again.

Separated in life  _ and  _ in death. It’s quite ridiculous if you ask him.

House falls into a spiral. It’s not as bad now, with no human drugs to use and no pain to take care of with said drugs. Demons offer him to snort the concept of time, but he declines. He spirals down, down, father down, until the apartment is even emptier and he sleeps with anyone, any demon who will take him. They’re all quite easy— if he got told most demons were there for sinning through lust, he’d believe it. Maybe he’s one of that bunch or the gay bunch he fears exists. There’s also his whole sinning through pride thing, and his sinning through sloth thing, and his sinning through wrath thing.

He’s a bit of a mixed bag, but nowadays he focuses all those sins into wrath. Into getting something worthwhile out of it— to be precise, a bit of a coping mechanism.

He branches out a little with just how he should torture his father. Sometimes he lets him suffer through the pain of having the same muscle he had removed while he was alive, have him beg for it to be over. He always makes sure to mock him, then, remind him of how dismissive he was of his pain when he was alive. _ It can’t be that bad, Greg _ , he’d say the far and few times they saw each other after his infarction.

Sometimes he just enjoys seeing him bleed out, or breaking the bones of his hand one by one, with stunning accuracy. That’s one of the perks of having studied medicine while on Earth— he knew exactly just how to torture people now that he had been demonized. Now that he had his father at his mercy and not the other way around. 

Sometimes he brings the temperature of the room down, back to the nights he spent outside sleeping in the rain for coming back after curfew. He’d make it rain inside Hell, too, a quite difficult task that was only allowed once he spoke to the demon of Revenge about why exactly he wanted to make it rain inside Hell.

“If you hadn’t done that to me,” he says as he breaks one of John’s fingers, pulls at it. He screams. “I perhaps would’ve been an okay person. I could be in Heaven right now.” There’s an unspoken  _ with Wilson _ there. He pauses to really think about it, and hums. “Although to be fair, if I wasn’t such a shit person, I would’ve never bailed him out of jail after noticing he was getting divorced while being awfully young.” He breaks another bone, and the scream sends a pleasurable shill down his spine. “So, thanks for that, I guess.”

He stays silent and motionless for a few good minutes, trying to straighten out his thoughts as his father pants and begs for it to be over, cries out in misery. He cracks another bone, and there’s another scream before he drops his father’s hand and turns around. He has matters to attend to.

“Maybe when I find out how to contact Wilson you’ll find some sort of peace here, old man.”   
  
He closes the door behind himself, his father still screaming and begging for the end, and he has no rush to go find one of the demons who have all the answers. They’re not comparable to Archangels, at any rate— they’re just in closer relationships with the Almighty One, and that was all. Some call them Closers; demons aren’t all that creative with their terms.

He finds a Closer by one of the gates to a different torture chamber. It’s for the worst of the worst, the scum of humanity, to be tortured by all of those who chose to be demonized. He’s walked in more than once on various people torturing Hitler himself.

“Hey,” he says, “Mr., uh, Closer…”   


The Closer scoffs. “You can call me Christian.”  
  
“An ironic name.”  
  
He shrugs. “Was born with it before I died and got up the demon ranks. What do you want, House? I don’t think you’ve ever sought a Closer before.”  
  
“I haven’t, no.” He swallows. “Is there a midpoint between Hell and Heaven? Somewhere like purgatory? Like, something I that just— somewhere angels and demons could meet?”  
  
Christian huffs at him. “Interesting question, Greg—”  
  
“Don’t call me that—” he intercepts; the only person he’s let call him Greg other than his parents was Wilson.

“ —Well, Greg, it is a very interesting question.” He smiles at him, airs of someone who fell into the deepest pits of Hell for his great ability at manipulating people. Well, House might as well be one of his kind, too. “But I’m afraid not.”   
  
“No?” he exclaims. “But purgatory—”   
  
“It is not a thing,” he says crossly, voice sharp with annoyance.  “Although, it might be some kind of thing in the future—”   
  
“What does that mean?”

The Closer’s sclera turns from black to red for a brief second, and House recoils. “It means,” he says, sternly, “that it does not matter, Greg. But you might want to go bother the Almighty One about other such possibilities.”   
  
“Which would be?”   
  
“Earth,” he spits out.” Angels and demons can affect Earth, they might as well go into it— cause chaos along your path to meet your dear angel boy, won’t you, Greg?”

“There’s no angel boy!” he barks. Regret immediately hits him. “Thanks,” he mumbles, hurrying away from him.

There’s no angel boy— that’s a blatant lie. Wilson; he wants to see Wilson oh so badly. He aches for it. He can still see his white wings, him disappearing into the distance, into the gates that go from Hell to Heaven, always locked unless you gain permission from a Guard. 

He puts his hand in his pocket, and he feels the feather. Soft like a pillow against his palm. He manages a weak smile— he wants to sleep before having to deal with talking to the Almighty One.

* * *

When he dreams, he’s back in the hotel room they stayed at during Wilson’s final days.

“House,” Wilson chokes out. He can’t see anything, his eyes unfocused and lifeless.

“Shh,” he says gently, “I know. You’re okay. Everything’s okay.” Blatant lies; his heart aches against his chest. 

Wilson sobs out with the little energy he has left, “I’m sorry.”   


“Everything’s fine,” he keeps reassuring, he keeps lying— “You’re fine. It’s all going to be over soon, I promise.”   


He hopes everything is over soon. He wants it to be over soon.

The scene changes; it’s deeper into the day now, the night is falling, the sun is hiding away. Less light coming in, less hope coming in, after all, after everything.

“You know,” House says as he sits down. It’s the chair next to Wilson’s bed, Wilson’s deathbed— it’s not comfortable at all, but he makes do. He leans in and folds his hands together. “I’ve bought a fuck ton of pills lately. It’ll all be over soon for both of us.” The pills are tucked away in the nightstand, hidden from his sight. He doesn’t want to leave before Wilson.

He swallows. “I never quite believed in anything, you know that well, but it’s…” He rubs his eyes. It all hurts; his leg hurts, his heart aches. Tears threaten to spill, but he can’t let them, even though Wilson can’t see them. Even though maybe Wilson will hear them. “I don’t know where I’m going with this. I just think I want this to last longer than it will.”

He stands and puts a hand on Wilson’s leg. He twitches and curses.

“I’ll miss you for the few hours I’ll still be here.”

The scene changes again. It’s deep into the night now, and Wilson still can’t see much if at all.

It’s nearing the seven-month mark. It’s been far too long, it’s been longer than they planned; longer than they expected. Everything aches, looking as Wilson struggles and sleeps and struggles and sleeps. 

House gets all choked up; he can’t help the tears or the way he can feel something lodged in his throat. “This is taking far longer than I expected,” he says through the tears. “I…”

He leans in; he kisses Wilson’s forehead. Wilson is sweaty, but he still goes on, he still kisses him. A bit sacred, a bit holy, maybe. House keeps a hand on Wilson’s thinning hair.

Wilson seems to relax.

“Love you too,” Wilson mumbles before he goes limp.

House wakes up terribly alone in his apartment in Hell. He thinks about it too much, about Wilson’s last words— his last words were something he never said while he was alive and well. Something they both wanted to say, but they held back for all those twenty-odd years they knew each other.

He’s exhausted. He wants to sleep more, but he doubts those dreams, those memories will let him. 

He tries to let himself fall asleep again. He has a long discussion to be had with the Almighty One when he wakes up for real.

* * *

When he’s fully awake, he gets ready to have a discussion with the Almighty One. He keeps Wilson’s feather tucked inside his pocket; it’s a memento, a luck amulet, maybe both at the same time. He sighs, fixes his hair, and flies his way to the Almighty One’s chambers.

It’s dark, dark enough that even with a demon’s eyes and their liking for darkness, it’s still difficult to make out specific objects and shapes. He walks his way through the mansion, all reds and blacks, and greys, columns of Roman style mixed with more contemporary kinds of architecture. It’s messy and unkempt, which he guesses is exactly how the Devil likes his mansion.

“Satan,” he says, and the man pops in behind him.

“Why are you calling me?” he snarls. About eight feet tall, pure white skin— it’s a little terrifying to see him, horns pointing downwards and his sclera reddish.

“I need to make a request.”   
  
Satan squints, looking at him. “You want to see an angel.”   


Ah, the power of sensing desire. He hates how Satan is right, how that’s what he wants— he wants to see Wilson oh so badly. He desires for his touch, he wants to kiss him. As soon as those images pop into his mind, Satan looks even more disgruntled.

Still, he carries on, “I want to be let out into Earth.”

“Ooh,” he says, snapping his fingers and sitting down on the obsidian chair that appears out of thin air. “We haven’t let out demons into Earth since ‘39.”   
  
“Jeez, I wonder why,” he mutters quietly to himself.

Satan ignores him. “But I am a fan of causing chaos. It is my whole uh, thing, anyway. Are you going to try to break into Heaven, Greg?”   
  
“Don’t call me that,” he insists, knowing it’s pointless. “I guess you could say so, though.”   


Satan laughs mockingly. “Good luck with that, Greg. I will let you out into Earth, though.”   
  
“That easy?”   
  
“Mm. You’ll cause chaos, I don’t need much more incentive than that.” He taps his fingers against the obsidian chair and snaps his fingers yet again, a glass of wine appearing into his hand. He takes a sip. “Tell the Guard I let you. He can detect truth, so you’ll be good to go.”   


House’s brows furrow, but he lets it be. He can question the Almighty One’s motives later.

“Oh, one more thing,” Satan says, “You’ll be let into somewhere else, surely.”   
  
“What’s that supposed to—”   


“See you, Greg.”   


The Almighty One disappears into thin air. No noise, no theatrics, nothing.

“Fucking hell,” he mumbles.

He sighs and unfolds his wings, walking out of the Almighty One’s mansion and trying to locate the gates. He sees them in the distance, the Guard — seven feet tall, from what he’s heard— standing there with his pitchfork. One of the few things similar to the stereotypical Hell are the pitchforks, alongside the torture.

He flies his way there; the Guard is, in fact, nearing seven feet tall, with horns pointing straight up, gray sclera and his skin at some point between white and gray.

“The Almighty One has allowed me to leave for Earth,” House says.

The Guard stares at him with careful, blank eyes. He’s exposed, somehow, even though he’s fully clothed— like the Guard can see every single inch of him without removing a single article of clothing.

“He has,” the Guard agrees quietly. The Gate opens. “Cause chaos in your travel.”   


House nods curtly and flies out into the open— the closest site on Earth to Hell is Florida, apparently, because he immediately recognizes what he sees before him as that state. He flies out throughout the clouds, dampening his wings, but it doesn’t matter— as long as he’s not seen, as long as he’s not seen.

He sinks closer to land when he recognizes Princeton; its landscape hasn’t changed all that much in ten years. More buildings, less nature, but that’s about it. The hospital is still there; Cuddy’s still there, somewhere. He knows she doesn’t miss him, so it doesn’t matter all that much. Cameron must be somewhere there, too, maybe in another state— that  _ is  _ her way of dealing with things.

After a few hours of watching Princeton from afar, he reminds himself of what he’s here to do. He can’t interrupt the life of the people he knew who are still alive. It’s pointless, useless. There’s no need for him to do such a thing.

And so he speeds upward, the clouds by his feet, water droplets scurrying off his wings. 

He remembers the Almighty One’s words. Are you going to try and break into Heaven, Greg? Is he going to? Can it even work? He doesn’t think it’ll work.

He remembers his dreams. Wilson, clinging onto life hopelessly. Wilson with the white wings unfolding. Wilson leaving Hell. Wilson smiling. He puts his hand in his pocket and feels the white feather that is still there, a memento, a reminder of what’s important. Because Wilson is what’s important.

He rushes forward, seeing the Gate. It’s a lot more impressive than Hell’s, golden and massive. He heads towards it and rattles it a little, nothing too loud. There is a Guard on the other side (nothing too different from Hell), and when he tries to jump over it, a forcefield knocks him back down.

“Hey! I want to be let in!” he exclaims. The Guard doesn’t move a muscle. “I  _ need  _ to be let in!” The change in phrasing doesn’t alter the Guard in any way.

Desperation fills him. The Guard is going to keep ignoring him, because he’s a demon because he’s impure and tainted and unholy and suddenly he’s clawing at the doors, crying out in pure anger and destructive greed.

Greed for someone, for a specific angel, someone he never had. Someone he’ll never have.

“I WANT TO SEE WILSON!” He screams as he claws at the Gate, crying, fighting, panting. “ _ LET ME SEE WILSON _ !”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic Was Not abandoned i just lost track of it. and this chapter might have a different tone than the rest of the story and im sorry if thats the case. im gay.
> 
> i hope you enjoy!!

Gabriel is trying to go through his daily routine, making sure the Gate is in perfect state and that the Guard hasn’t done anything he shouldn’t do. He hums and watches his robes swish against his feet; as much as he could use his six wings, he’s never really liked it. His wings are only for when he has to go down to Earth for some business going down there.

And then he hears a demon scream, yelling desperately for a Wilson. Of course, his mind is immediately flooded by what a fellow Archangel had warned him about, about how they had to finish the project before he got there. They had, thank goodness, but he is still an unwelcome entity, with his unholiness all over his dark wings.

“Gabriel,” the Guard says, bowing as House stops right in his movements. 

Gabriel turns to the demon, hissing a little, and puts a hand on the Guard’s shoulder, his wings unfolding and some of his eyes opening as he scans the demon. No need to cause trouble, no wish for it— just a desire, a need for James Evan Wilson. He smiles a little; he’s seen only a few cases of this happening. It’s always heart-warming, how humans’ saying of opposites attract sometimes truly happens. Hell and Heaven meeting in the middle out of love.

“Open the Gate,” he tells the Guard.

House blinks. “What— you’re just going to let me in? No problems, no issues there?”

Gabriel grins at him, showing off his teeth (they’re too many, granted, to look even vaguely human). “Yes. You will see why soon.”

House blinks and the Gate opens with a loud clack, the gold of it shimmering in the sunlight. He follows Gabriel’s lead.

“I do have to get your beloved first, though.”   
  
House swallows, brows furrowing. Worried. “Does it concern him?” 

“Oh,  _ yes _ , very much so.”   


He stares at the Archangel for a few seconds before nodding. And Gabriel leaves then— he could teleport towards where Wilson is, granted (talking with Amber while she cuddles with Thirteen), but what are the theatrics in that? He’s done enough teleporting for multiple lifetimes. After a few minutes he ends up at his place, and he knocks.

“Hold up a second!” Wilson exclaims. “Amber, shut up!”   


Wilson opens the door, his face going pale when he sees Gabriel. He opens a few eyes and nods a little.

“Uh, what is it, sir? Do you need a-anything from me?”

“Yes, you see, your beloved is by the Gate, waiting for us to get to him.”

“My beloved—?”   
  
He cuts him off (he knows what he means, of course he does, but he’s playing dumb for some reason that goes beyond his understanding— ex-humans are extremely weird creatures). “Gregory House.”

Wilson swallows, his eyes widening. “Oh.”   


Gabriel gives him a brow raise.

“Yes, I’m going, sir.” He starts walking next to him, face flushed red and him fiddling with his hands. “What— what’s the issue, sir? How did he get in Heaven, anyway?”   
  
“He did not  _ get in  _ Heaven,” Gabriel hisses, offended at the mere notion. “I  _ let  _ him in. There is a clear difference.”

Wilson nearly stops in his tracks, tripping on his own feet, but he keeps up with Gabriel’s quick pace towards the Gate. “I’m sorry, sir, I just did not think you let demons inside Heaven—”   
  
“We don’t,” he interrupts him. “Unless there are circumstances like these.”   
  
“What do you mean—”   
  
“Silence,” he says starkly before getting back to the Gate.

Wilson’s eyes widen and he immediately rushes towards House, hugging him so tight he could’ve broken a bone or two if they were still in human bodies. The air is so filled to the brim with love that he can’t help but turn up his nose at the smell— the Guard’s face scrunches up as well.

“So.” Gabriel clears his throat and the two ex-humans take a second to untangle from each other. “I didn’t come here to give you two a lovers’ reunion— well, yes I did.” He closes his eyes and sighs. “Follow me. Rather, hold onto me so we teleport together. I’m already tired.”   


“I thought angels were all about love,” House mumbles as he grabs one of Gabriel’s wrists, Wilson grabbing the other before intertwining his fingers with House’s.

“We are,” Gabriel says. “I’m just old and jaded, and did not take part in this in the least.”

He focuses, and he disappears off the Guard’s sight.

* * *

Wilson’s body shakes when he comes back and ends up in another point in Heaven and he turns back to House, looking at him with his very wide eyes, so surprised to see him right then and there still. It’s been several minutes, and the universe didn’t end as they know it. He can’t help but grin toothily, giggling to himself as he stares at House lovingly. There’s no secret, now, it’s only a matter of privacy — whenever they can get privacy.

House clears his throat. “So, what’s exactly going on?”   
  
Gabriel sighs and fixes his long blonde locks. “Well, you all know angels are suckers for happy endings. It’s kind of in our DNA.” He sucks in a breath and makes gestures with his hands, fiddling with them afterward. “Not like we have DNA. Angels. But, anyways—”   
  
“How did people in the Torah listen to him?” Wilson stage whispers to House, who chuckles.

“— We were informed of a new case of lovers being in different realms after death.” He looks at them. “You two. It has happened before, but only a few times. Nearly all couples or almost-couples, as is your case, end up both in Heaven or both in Hell. The case of being separated after death is... quite rare and if it wasn’t for our influence on down under, you’d probably stay separated.”   
  
“What does that mean?” House immediately cuts in, “Are we  _ not  _ staying separated?”   


Gabriel shoots him a look, but it doesn’t stop him from looking at him questioningly. When has a look stopped House? “And both of you have asked if there is a middle ground between Heaven and Hell. Perhaps because you were so desperate to see each other—”   
  
“Wait,” Wilson says, “does that mean my assignment—”   
  
“Was completely on purpose? Yes.”   


He draws in a breath, eyes wide with surprise as he scratches the back of his head. “There is a middle ground.”   


“Just for cases like yours,” Gabriel adds. “No one is very keen on it, and it’s a very small village made of everything each couple loves.” House opens his mouth. “Yes, Gregory, you will all the near impossible cases you want, it’s all good.”   


House nods, a small smile on his lips. “And can we visit Heaven whenever we want? I’m sure Wilson is attached to our people there.”   


“Mm,” he shrugs. “It’s a little complicated. But we’ll make do. Anyways, care to see your new lives? It’ll be fun, I promise.”   
  
“It’s a  _ house _ ,” House mutters. “It can’t be interesting.”   


Wilson gives him a toothy smile. “I think our apartment was quite interesting.” 

House looks at him and Wilson is overwhelmed with the need to kiss him, finally, after all this time. He bites his lip. Soon, soon, as soon as they’re there in their own home— he’ll kiss him silly. He’s got to wait, House _can’t_ be good with public displays of affection.

“Oh, quit it,” Gabriel mutters. “The smell’s repugnant.”   
  
Wilson does not, in fact, quit it.

The middle ground between Heaven and Hell— limbo, perhaps, or just The Middle— is odd. Odd would be the most appropriate word, considering the wildly different biomes and styles of architecture all over the place. Two places reminiscent of Ancient Rome, one of Classic Egypt, a few from Medieval Germany— and then there’s one wildly out of place. A New Jersey apartment, which Wilson takes a moment to recognize.

“ _ Oh _ ,” Wilson breathes, suddenly overtaken with emotion.

House puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes ever so gently.

“We did take a few liberties with it,” Gabriel says suddenly, making him jump in surprise. “It’s a bit bigger than back in Earth. Also a bit cleaner, but it still looks lived-in. Uriel noted that House loved that.”   
  
“I didn’t—”   
  
“He’s  _ omniscient _ , I think he’s allowed to make judgments about your character and what you like.”   


Gabriel stares at them for a moment, his hands going down. “Are you  _ sure  _ you two weren’t married while alive?”

“My last words  _ were  _ a love confession,” Wilson cuts in.

Gabriel makes a face. “ _ Ugh _ .” He hands them their keys. “I can practically feel House screaming to get some privacy, so I’ll get going. No one’s watching, except, you know.” He waves his hand and disappears into thin air.

House stares at Wilson and then glances all over the landscape, swallowing nervously.

Wilson gets it and he heads to unlock the door. “I got you,” he says, stepping into their apartment for the first time in twelve human years. It is lived in; things moved around haphazardly, there’s still some of their clothes on a chair, ready to be folded, and there’s not a hint of Sam’s presence.

He draws in a breath and House kicks the door closed (it’s a thing he notices now, just how eager House is to use his leg now that he can), and he promptly pulls House into a kiss before their noses bump and they pull away, their lips only barely brushing.

House laughs. “We’re— we’re acting like high schoolers who’ve never kissed before.”   


Wilson smiles, his heart beating hard against his rib cage. He thinks about House torturing his father, and he thinks about the memento still tucked into his pocket, and he thinks of how beautiful House is, and he pulls him into a kiss.

It’s still not perfect, but they make it work. Bumping against furniture and humming happily as they kiss again and again, making it a little better with each peck. Wilson’s hands on House’s face, House’s hands on Wilson’s hips, keeping each other as close as inhumanly possible, breathing hard and gasping for air.

And oh, Wilson doesn’t need to be an Archangel to know just how intoxicating the scent of love is.


	5. Chapter 5

After what feels like hours, Wilson pulls him onto the couch, still kissing him, and he hums, savoring every last second of it. It’s perfect, really, Wilson’s lips against his neck, gently pulling a mark into it, caressing his beard that hasn’t grown in the years he’s been dead. 

“I love you,” Wilson tells him over and over again.

House feels a thick layer of love overpower his need to deflect, to not show any emotion at any moment. But he still goes for it, “Did you repeat that to Amber like it’s the only words you know too?”   


Wilson doesn’t even seem affected. He just rolls his eyes and kisses him again.

“There were lots of good times,” he says.

House hums. “There were.”

Wilson nearly settles himself on House’s lap, before his eyes go down to his thighs, and then back at him.

“Dude, I might’ve gone to Hell, but they didn’t keep my goddamn infarction,” House says.

He laughs and sits there, still kissing him. “Remember when we  _ pretended  _ to be in love?”   


“It was —” He makes a face. “A terrible attempt at pretending, indeed.”   


Wilson hums and rests his head on House’s shoulder, holding onto him, his nails digging into the cloth of House’s leather jacket. It looks like the one he had back in Earth, but it’s somehow terribly off. He can’t put his finger on why, but it is. It’s  _ different _ .

“You know when I realized I was into men?”   
  
House raises a brow. “When?”

Wilson stays silent for a few excruciating minutes, brows furrowed. “During my wedding night with Bonnie.”   


“Oh,” he says quietly. He goes back to his usual pace soon enough. “Were you, uh—”   
  
“Yes,” he cuts him off. “I was thinking about you instead of Bonnie.”   
  
House gasps, delighted, before he goes and smacks his arm. “Goodness, Wilson,” he says, “Didya ever consider cheating on her with me?” He wiggles his brows, sticking his tongue out.

Wilson gives him a look, and when it doesn’t deter him in the least, he pulls him into a rough, kind kiss. He melts with his mouth against Wilson’s, as much as he wouldn’t like to admit it— it feels more right than any other person before him. More correct than Stacy, than all those hookers he hired to deal with his issues  _ and  _ with the Wilson-related issues. 

Wilson’s mouth is kind yet so strict, in a way he can’t begin to explain. He’s so unmeasurably good-hearted, full of the wish to better people’s lives — he did become an oncologist for a reason — but he knows, oh he knows, that’s something House wouldn’t ever allow until life extinguished out of him. So he’s not as kind as with everyone else, because he’s aware it’s not what House wants or needs.

He’s never had someone read him like an open book with such ease before.

“I love you,” he whispers against Wilson’s neck.

“I know,” Wilson mumbles, pulling him up into a far gentler kiss. “So, where were we? No, I did not plan to cheat on Bonnie.”   
  
He gives him a lopsided smile. “What about with Amber?”   
  
“ _ House _ !” he exclaims, scandalized.

“What?”   
  
Wilson pulls him into another kiss, giggling quietly. “You’re so awful. I love you.”   
  
“I love you too.” He stays silent for a few moments. “I… okay, you can’t go around telling people this, but—”   
  
Wilson turns to him with curious eyes, obviously eager to hear whatever deep secret he’s about to go on about. And oh, it is a secret lodged inside himself, alright, but it’s not so deep as it is deeply embarrassing. Like embarrassing enough, he didn’t come to terms with it until years after it happened.

He buries his face on the crook of Wilson’s neck so he doesn’t have to see his face. “It was love at first sight,” he says to the TV.

Wilson puts a hand on his side. “Wuh— what was?” 

“For you,” he says, voice growing quieter. “At that medical conference.”

House hears how Wilson’s breath gets stuck in his throat before he pulls away and makes House look at him. His pretty brown eyes are wide, brows nearly by his hairline with how much they’re raised, his mouth gaping open.

“You—” Wilson stammers, “You fell in love with me?  _ That  _ night?”   


“That night,” he says, his face burning a hundred degrees. 

“Oh fuck,” Wilson breathes, pulling him into a messy kiss, all full of need and adoration. “I didn’t expect you to be such a romantic— love at first sight, from you, from  _ you _ —”   


“Sheesh, go out and tell everyone you know who’s dead,” he mumbles as he looks down, too embarrassed to bask into the holy affection Wilson gives him. 

“I won’t,” he promises, kissing him again and again, like that’s all he can do. And it is all he can do. “I’ll keep it a secret, dear, babe, darling, fuck, I love you  _ so much _ —”   


“I know,” he says, clinging onto him and closing his eyes. “I love you too.”   


“I loved you way more than I ever loved Sam,” he admits, “I loved spending time with you more than with her. And you knew that too— I acknowledged it.”  
  
“But you thought it was just a _best friends_ thing,” he says.

Wilson chuckles and shakes his head. “A little. I was stupid, okay?”

“You’ve always been stupid,” House says.

He pulls a face and kisses him. “There’s been…” he struggles with his words. “There’s been something I’ve wanted to do for years now.”   
  
House raises a brow. “Since your wedding night with Bonnie?”   
  
He bites his lip. “Yeah.”   
  
“Oh, finally,” he breathes out, pulling him into a kiss. “We’re gonna fuck. Finally—”   
  
“No,” he interrupts him, his face softening with a care there aren’t many words for. Far too few words for. “We’re going to make love.”

The pit of House’s stomach turns into jelly at those simple words, and he holds onto Wilson. He’s already been so vulnerable, so stupidly vulnerable in the last two hours or so. He’s admitted it was love at first sight. Surely, it can’t get worse than that, he should— “Of course,” he says.

Wilson’s smile is miles wide as he helps House up and heads towards the bedroom. It’s the same main room as their old apartment, but the bed is so much bigger. Yet it somehow fits perfectly into the old small room (something magical, something he’ll have to thank the Archangel in charge of this whole operation over). 

Wilson leads him down, settles him onto the bed, and kisses him slow as he undresses him. The feather of Wilson’s he kept flies out of his pocket and joins back into Wilson’s carefully folded wings. House unfolds his wings, lets them cover most of the bed, as he finishes getting undressed. Wilson does as well.

He miracles lube into his hand; he kisses him as he gets him ready, muttering praises, every touch too gentle and too holy for them to be ready for it at all.

“I love you,” House breathes, moaning a little. 

“I love you too.” He pauses and looks at his hands. “Ready?”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
The lube disappears.

When Wilson pushes in, House simply groans and kisses him hungrily as he gets used to having Wilson there, there. The movements are careful, gentle.

“You’re perfect,” Wilson breathes, caressing his face. “You’re incredible. You’re so smart, you’re so perfect for me, I couldn’t imagine spending eternity with anyone else—”   


House gasps and he comes, clinging onto Wilson before he starts sobbing, pure tears of joy and adoration and holiness he can’t even get rid of. He cries, clinging onto Wilson as he stays buried before slowly pulling away.

“Shh,” Wilson breathes, “I love you. I love you. You’re so perfect, honey, shh, cry all you want.”   
  
House hasn’t let himself cry for years and years, and he  _ cries,  _ nails digging into Wilson’s sides, ugly sobs leaving his mouth with every breath he takes.

“I love you,” he breathes.

“I know,” Wilson says, “I love you too.”   


And he can stay like that, crying, but he eventually regains a semblance of calmness, his breathing slowing down. “I —” He sucks in a breath. “I want to sleep.”   
  
“Of course,” he says. “We can sleep now, dear.”   


Wilson wraps him in his wings as he gets comfortable, and House has the most peaceful sleep he’s had ever since he left Earth.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for following me through the journey that was this fic.
> 
> some notes about inspirations and such:  
> \- the title is a play on a lyric from _church_ by fall out boy.  
> \- i have a playlist of 11 songs for this fic, and the most important in my opinion would be _faith_ by george michael, _church_ by fall out boy & _locked out of heaven_ by bruno mars.  
> \- the idea for a middle-ground in between hell and heaven was heavily inspired by the tv show _the good place_ , while the portrayal of angels and demons was partly inspired by the book _good omens_ , which i read after having written chapter 3, if memory serves, which is why gabriel was a dick in chapter four.  
> \- the idea of house having fallen for wilson at first sight was largerly inspired by the caption of [this comic](https://mothdogs.tumblr.com/post/180330128457/i-wanted-to-re-draw-a-concept-i-had-for-a-comic) by mothdogs on tumblr.  
> \- i wrote down on evernote the outline for this fic before i started writing it, and i didn't veer from it much, a fact i'm very proud of.  
>    
> this is, legitimately, the first multi-chapter fic i have _ever_ completed. thank you so much for the support, the comments, and letting me scream at people in discord.
> 
>  see you in the next one! :D


End file.
